RAILROADS: The Troubles of the Pennsy

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As casually as a switching engineman shunting a string of milk cars into a siding, the Pennsylvania Railroad announced last week that it will lop 40 passenger trains off its schedules, effective July 8. Twenty-five commuter trains will be dropped from Philadelphia's heavily traveled Main Line and other suburban areas; long-distance service in & out of Pittsburgh will be reduced by seven trains, and cuts will be made on trains going into Chicago, St. Louis, Baltimore and Buffalo. The Pennsy's explanation was curt and businesslike: it is losing money on passenger traffic and thinks that the way to cut its losses is to cut out money-losing runs.

There is great doubt that this explanation will satisfy the Pennsy's passengers, who are not only the country's most numerous (75 million a year) but who also feel they are the most put upon. In their opinion, the Pennsylvania Railroad, which pulls in more revenue than any other U.S. road, and hauls 20% of all U.S. passenger traffic on its 10,000 miles of track, is far from being the country's best.

The Pennsy's commuters have been the most vocal because they feel they have suffered the most. The sad and bloody history of the Long Island Rail Road, the Pennsy's bankrupt subsidiary, is not the only black mark. Clevelanders, who have had four suburban stops lopped off in the past year, fear that other stations will soon be wiped off the map. New Jerseyites have formed a "protective association" to get some action on such claimed commutation hazards as wooden trestles, high fares, and cars that let in snow and soot in the winter, heat and grime in the summer. Philadelphians, where the bulk of commuters ride, are kinder. Said one: "When we knock the Pennsy, we knock it gently, like an old pipe or a good wife."

Pony Express. Many passengers on longer runs match the commuter complaints. Among their gripes: old equipment (an average 31 years for Pennsy coaches v. the national average of 26), old stations, dirty cars, tasteless food, poor safety and on-time performance, and the churlishness of employees.

In Cleveland, the Pennsylvania's ancient, dingy Lakefront station has also been a sore point for years. In 1914 one irate user called it a "pig pen;" only four years ago the Cleveland Press vainly campaigned to get it replaced, offered suitable prizes to anyone who could remember the day it opened in 1866. Sample awards: "lithograph of President Lincoln, free ride in next stagecoach passing through Cleveland . . . views of pony express for your stereoscope."

Sore Point. The Canton, Ohio station is just as sore a point with some; one passenger described its men's room as "a place that would turn a vulture's stomach." But what irritates a few Cantonians most is the grudging attitude of Pennsylvania employees toward passengers. Said Assistant Vice President H. W. Hoover Jr. of the Hoover (vacuum cleaners) Co.: "They show . . . utter disregard of their responsibility to the public." Hoover executives are so indignant that they refuse to ride the Pennsy from Chicago to their headquarters at Canton.